by Steve Israel
Morris lugged two suitcases, some light reading, and an excessive amount of guilt over calling in sick to Celfex. The terminal echoed with the plunking and rattling of plastic bins and the occasional beeping protests of metal detectors, the barks of TSA agents for “bag check” and “male secondary” and the repeated and urgent directions on the basics of air travel. Because in a nation of frenetic multitaskers, a nation derived from restless immigrants who managed to leave their villages and cities and cross vast and roiling oceans a world away, today’s Americans have trouble removing their shoes, placing their belongings on a conveyer belt, and walking ten feet through a metal detector.
Morris was not a nervous flyer. But when he arrived at the small podium at the front of the line, and saw the strange reaction to his boarding pass by the guard from the Transportation Security Administration, his nerves activated, bringing small beads of sweat across his forehead. The guard’s eyes widened in seeming alarm the instant he saw the boarding pass. They darted from Morris’s flushed and perspiring face, to the driver’s license, and back to the boarding pass. Which made Morris sweat even more. Which made the guard sweat also.
Something’s wrong, Morris thought.
“Uhhhhh, Mister Feldstein, I’m going to need to call my supervisor over for a moment,” the guard reported.
Supervisor? Morris hated supervisors. They were authority figures, and authority figures intimidated him. It didn’t matter whether it was a Celfex district supervisor, or a supervisor at the Bloomingdale’s shoe department when Rona returned merchandise, or a TSA supervisor. When a supervisor was called into a situation, there was a situation.
This particular supervisor happened to be about seven feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to extend about the length of three airport gates, and a scalp so cleanly shaven that it refracted the bright overhead lights, making Morris squint. And when he examined the boarding pass, Morris could swear he saw some frothing on his lips.
His voice was deep and officious. “Sir, we’re going to need you to step aside for secondary screening.”
Secondary screening? Terrorists get secondary screening! Criminals! Not Celfex employees who tell white lies about a stomach flu.
“Male secondary!” The supervisor bellowed. Which fingered Morris to the entire line in back of him. Like a picture in the post office.
He was mortified. And behind him, Rona whispered, “Oh my God, Morris, now what did you do?”
Something told him to turn around, right then and there, and go home. Go home and pick up the phone and tell Celfex, “I am feeling much better now, it must have been a twelve-hour thing, and I’m starting my sales call right this second.” He wanted to drop his luggage and relieve his guilt and forget the free weekend vacation offer at the Paradise. But he couldn’t, because the hulking TSA agent had already clasped his humongous fingers around Morris’s elbow and tugged.
The supervisor led Morris to a screened-off “privacy area,” which offered all the privacy of the stage at Radio City Music Hall.
Morris Feldstein was a highly private man. Men who guard their privacy generally don’t like removing articles of clothing in public, having scanners waved in front of their genitals, and then feeling the palms of strangers pressing and squeezing against the insides of their thighs. But Morris did what he was told: standing and sitting, holding his arms outstretched and resting them at his sides. He watched as they swabbed his luggage to test for explosives.
Finally, he was freed. “Have a nice flight,” said the supervisor. Morris detected a tone that said, “We’re watching you, Feldstein!”
As he and Rona rushed to the gate, Rona said, “I heard on the news that Senator Kennedy got stopped five times at the airport because his name was on one of those lists. Maybe you’re name is on one too, Morris.” That’s what it must be, she thought. A no-fly list of terrorists, United States Senators, and adulterers.
The plane lifted off the runway. Morris craned his neck and watched the vague outlines of Long Island slip away. He felt relieved. As if he was leaving the tsuris behind.
Later they arrived in the Palm Beach International Airport terminal, searched for the luggage carousel, got lost, and found their way; met a cheerful young man with bronze skin and blond hair in a yellow shirt and khakis holding a sign that said, WELCOME TO PARADISE, MR. AND MRS. FEINSTEEN; drove with him in the yellow Paradise Resorts courtesy van; settled into their room; watched TV until they fell asleep; woke up on Saturday to a complimentary VIP breakfast at the Paradise Grille; watched a ten-minute Welcome Home video; boarded a yellow golf cart and enjoyed a private VIP tour of the grounds followed by a sales presentation at dinner. On Sunday they inspected the designer model, peered into the subzero freezer and cooed at the walk-in closets; nodded their approval at the twenty-four-hour world-class gym; tentatively dipped their toes in the lapping turquoise waves of the Atlantic, sat for two minutes under a yellow-and-white Paradise Residences beach umbrella, and wiped the sand from Rona’s sweater; repacked their bags, which now included a yellow-and-white complimentary Paradise Resorts carry-on; flew back to LaGuardia, and drove home to Great Neck.
And when they plunked their luggage down in the front hall, they were the proud new owners of nine hundred square feet of paradise, with a nice view of the ocean and the Major League Baseball upgrade on satellite television.
THE DEPARTMENT OF SPECIAL PROGRAMS
SATURDAY, AUGUST 28, 2004
“As if Saturday morning with Cheney isn’t creepy enough!” Jon Pruitt sighed when he saw Scooter Libby and Karl Rove rushing toward him in the darkened West Wing corridor fronting the Vice President’s office. Since it was Saturday, the White House tempo was relaxed. But those two made up for it with their determined march.
“You see this!” Libby excitedly waved a bunch of newspapers at Pruitt. “They’re questioning the President’s record in Vietnam! This is the Democrat playbook. To distract the American people from al-Qaeda with smear attacks on the President’s military record! His military record! It’s over the line!” Libby slapped the newspapers against his palm for emphasis.
“We can’t go into the convention with this story!” warned Rove. “We need to change the focus back to our sweet spot.”
Fear, thought Pruitt. E pluribus petrified.
“So what’s our status with an upgraded threat alert?” Libby asked.
“Again, I’m unaware of any specific intelligence that justifies an increase in the threat alert.”
Libby rolled his eyes then whispered, “Are you going to the Vice President’s Special Programs meeting?”
“What ‘Special Programs’ meeting? I don’t know anything about that.”
“Oh, that’s right” Libby cooed. “You’re not authorized to attend the ‘Special Programs’ meetings. Too bad.”
Pruitt felt a twist in his appendix. “I’m here because the Vice President asked me for a homeland security briefing on the Republican Convention.” And then asked, “What ‘Special Programs’?”
“Really can’t say. Evidently you’re not authorized to know.”
“I’m Special Counsel to the Secretary of Homeland Security. I should know.”
“If you should know, you would know. Since you don’t, you shouldn’t.”
Pruitt’s momentary confusion was interrupted by a secretary informing them that the Vice President was waiting for them.
Behind his desk, Cheney sat like a statue. Same cool texture. Same frozen expression. Same blue suit and red tie even on a Saturday morning in August. On an opposite wall, three muted television screens showed helicopter footage of a mass of pre-convention protesters in New York. An undulating blue line of cops was attempting to contain them in a fenced-off area, like trying to get thousands of charging bulls into a pen.
“Sit down,” Cheney instructed. Rove and Libby sat together on a couch, and faced the Vice President. Pruit
t remained standing.
“What’s our status?” Cheney asked.
“Mr. Vice President, we’ve increased the threat assessment in the vicinity of the convention.”
Libby said, “The whole country should be put on alert. I mean, look at that!” He pointed to the televisions.
“Half of the protesters are undercover,” Pruitt said. “The other half are exercising their constitutional rights.”
“I’m sorry,” Libby sneered. “I didn’t realize you dropped out of the Federalist Society and joined the ACLU.”
“Would you like a free copy of the Bill of Rights?”
“Want to compare my degrees from Yale and Columbia with your degrees from . . . exactly which public college did you go to?” asked Libby.
“Hold it.” Cheney raised his hands to impose order. And let the silence work on Pruitt’s nerves. “Do you have anything else?”
“Yes, sir.” Pruitt gulped hard. “What ‘special programs’ do you meet about?”
Cheney simply stared, as if the question hadn’t been asked.
“Does the White House counsel know about these special programs? Justice Department? Anyone?”
“That’s none of your business!” Libby snapped.
“I am bound by my constitutional oath—”
“Here we go again,” muttered Libby. “With the Constitution.”
Cheney raised his hands again. “Mister Pruitt, don’t take my lack of response to your question as a confirmation or a denial. As for your constitutional obligations, I am the Vice President. A constitutional officer, elected by the people, just like the President. With certain rights and responsibilities. Invested with certain authorities. Some of which you may be aware of. Some of which you may be unaware of.”
“We don’t know what you know. We don’t know what you don’t know.” Rove snickered.
Cheney continued, folding his hands in front of him. “Now, as to the matter at hand. If DHS is of the opinion that there are no threats justifying an increased alert level, the DHS is entitled to its opinion. But it is only an opinion. We will use every means to assess threat and respond accordingly.”
The words “every means” made Pruitt wince.
“Have a good day,” Cheney said. Which, Pruitt concluded, was Cheney’s way of saying, “Have a nice life.” He stood, convinced that he had just submitted his resignation from the Bush Administration. Or his death warrant. He wasn’t sure which.
“All right then,” Pruitt said. It wasn’t the dramatic exit line that brought down the curtain. It wasn’t exactly Nathan Hale, regretting that he had only one life to give for his country. It was just the best he could come up with. “All right then.”
After he left, Libby blew an angry gust of air. “Those guys at DHS just . . . don’t . . . get it!”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Cheney replied. “We don’t need DHS to advise us on threats. We can put other oars in the water.”
NICK, thought Libby. Cheney’s “Special Program.”
Cheney fixed his eyes on the television screens. The NYPD was moving against the demonstrators. But every pressure point created a surge somewhere else. Like squeezing a water balloon.
Those poor, naïve people, he thought. Who have no idea how the world works. Who want to read Miranda rights on the battlefield to people plotting to blow up more of our buildings. The Blame-America-First crowd. The Bush-haters. The idealists and anarchists. With their bandanas and their bicycles. The ACLU and MoveOn and the Audubon Society. Carrying their signs with one hand and a Starbucks Mint Chocolate Chip Frappuccino with the other. The coddled and the cushy. Who get their news from NPR instead of the CIA. Those frighteningly naïve people. Without the slightest idea just how dark and messy and bloody it is out there. In the caves and mountains and the mosques. Where the enemy watches and waits. Buying, trading, selling the components for the next attack. Or attacks. Killing and beheading and dismembering . . .
Cheney felt his heart thumping.
Go ahead. Protest us. Picket us. Keep whining. Every day you remind America about how unsafe we’ll be if you get your way. How the Democrats will take the global War on Terror from the battlefield to a UN cocktail party. How the biggest army in America will be the Legal Aid lawyers representing enemy noncombatants.
Cheney looked at the morning newspapers that he had read earlier, piled on the far corner of his desk.
In four days I will remind the American people what really counts. Their survival. In four days.
Until that one moment when all hell broke loose, Caryn Feldstein’s video camera was documenting a party. They chanted and sang. They clasped hands and waved their arms and hoisted their signs high above their heads. They embraced and laughed in common cause.
She stood near the front of the crowd. She wanted to arrive early to establish a sense of place and find the perfect angles. She left her studio apartment at ten, wearing denim shorts, Nike sneakers, and a red IMPEACH BUSH T-shirt. Carrying her Canon High Definition camcorder with 24-105 mm lens (equipment that required a considerable number of overtime hours at the Gap, where she worked as she planned her career as a famous filmmaker). She took the subway to Penn Station, emerging into a circus atmosphere. Thousands of delegates milling around, their convention credentials tangled with camera straps around their necks. Vendors with thick New York accents hawked souvenirs: Bush-Cheney coffee mugs, Bush-Cheney T-shirts, and official Republican National Convention 2004 refrigerator magnets. American flags were everywhere, and in every form, stenciled and silk-screened. The delegates believed that the Constitution of the United States should be amended to protect the flag from desecration. With a waiver for certain undergarments and glow-in-the-dark flyswatters.
Caryn found the protesters in the official protest area, close enough to the convention site to avoid an ACLU lawsuit on First Amendment grounds, but distant enough so that they wouldn’t inconvenience the delegates. Because those who attended the convention to support the Administration’s fight for freedom around the world shouldn’t have to encounter freedom around the block. There’s a place for freedom. Preferably out of the angles of network cameras.
She pushed her way into the crowd, in order to draw her audience into the scene. To capture the moment with close-ups.
Then things got too close.
She felt that first shove from behind. Not too forceful, just enough to bend her knees and loosen her footing. “Whoah!” she complained as she tried to hold her position and her camera at the same time. But the pressure only increased, like a wave gathering in strength.
She felt her grip on the camera loosen. It fell from her hands, swallowed in the crush of people. It bounced off bodies until she heard the sickening sound of metal and glass hitting pavement, and crunching under countless feet.
Her arms and legs were locked with other arms and legs, as she was swept forward. The smell of perspiring bodies, compressed under a warm sun, choked her. The feel of her flesh against other flesh nauseated her. Her ears thundered as helicopters seemed to roar down on them, to the cries of “Stop pushing!” and “Quit shoving!” Then the rogue wave began breaking—toward a distinct blue line of police.
Later, the conspiracy theorists would insist the whole affair was instigated by moles inserted into the crowd to discredit the protests, placed there by a cabal consisting of the police themselves, the CIA and FBI, the International Monetary Fund, and “Corporate America.”
But at that moment, as Caryn Feldstein and her cohorts were in a wave crashing toward the New York Police Department, conspiracy theories were irrelevant. Physics was operating, the physics of mass and velocity and momentum. Caryn tumbled forward, trying to break the momentum by planting her feet, watching through flailing limbs as she hurled toward that blue line.
Caryn Feldstein, proud former candy striper at North Shore–Long Island Jewish Hospital, cofounder
and copresident of the Great Neck High School Vegans’ Club (incessantly mocked by fellow students as the Great Neck High School Virgins’ Club), member of the Brandeis University Environmental Justice Student Organization, and current employee at the Gap would now have a new biographical entry. For the rest of her life, when she filled out an application for employment or credit, where it says, “Have you ever been arrested?” she would have to answer “Yes.” Of course, she could go on to append the form: “But the charges were dropped. And it wasn’t really anything bad. I was filming a protest. At the Republican National Convention. Using my lens to uncover the role of government in suppressing dissent in a free society. For a documentary I was going to call ‘Gag Rule.’ It’s not like I robbed a bank.” But most forms didn’t offer space for such explanations.
Later, scuffed and bruised, sniffing back sobs, Caryn hurried across Thirty-Second Street, toward the Hudson River, to get as far away as she could from the sounds of the sirens and helicopters and the indignant chanting of the remaining protesters. The farther she walked, the quieter it became. Until all she could hear, strangely, was the soft voice of her father, whose advice, she now realized, may have some merit after all: “Why make waves?”
Hungrily, NICK consumed the news. Absorbing the police reports from New York, the names and fingerprints and photographs.
Caryn Feldstein. Twenty-three. Daughter of Morris and Rona. Morris, person of interest for his known association with Victoria D’Amico. Victoria D’Amico, a known associate of medical counterfeiter Ricardo Xavier Montoyez. All believed to be involved in a drug conspiracy to finance terrorist operations against the interests of the government of the United States.
This Morris Feldstein was beginning to piss NICK off.
NOTHING TO FEAR BUT FEAR
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2004
